


Long Is The Way

by JackOfSparks



Category: Dark Souls
Genre: Gen, Walkthrough Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 09:59:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackOfSparks/pseuds/JackOfSparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A needlessly pretentious and pseudo-intellectual 'walkthrough fic' of Dark Souls. That is, to say, a fic that tells the story of the game through the eyes of the main character, the Chosen Undead. (Specifically, a Str/Fth build starting as a Knight).</p>
<p>Knowledge of the game isn't actually required, but spoilers abound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Is The Way

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a prologue, I guess. Nothing exciting happens in this chapter, and it covers all of maybe thirty seconds of gameplay. Just some early character-establishment and scene-setting.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

Strong, cold rains had been pouring through the barred windows and leaky ceilings of the Undead Asylum for the last several days, having only very recently waned. The chill they brought with them, however, had stayed, seeping through flesh and into bone. Combined with the unceasing drip of falling water that always seemed to only just avoid a rhythm, it was enough to drive a person insane, assuming there were any left in the Asylum who were not so already.

Joan mostly found it comforting, it was something to think about besides the hunger. She rubbed her hands together, blew into them and tried to keep warm. Experience told her it was futile, but wisdom told her that the more she started acting like a Hollow, the quicker she'd become one.

For the first few months, Joan had lived in her cell like a knight ought to. She kept herself clean and tidy as the situation allowed, said her morning and evening prayers, perhaps even found some comfort in the situation. She had never had the willpower to fast for more than a week before, and to do so for a month... honestly, she’d been quite proud of herself at the time.

By the third month, she’d begun to consider eating rats and insects. By the fifth, she was pouncing on them the moment she saw them, like a caged animal. By the ninth, they’d learned not to come near her, and she was once again left to go hungry.

Most of her robes, once white and pure, still hung like a serpent's discarded skin from a rafter on the ceiling. It was strained, from when she'd made a noose of it... and shredded, from when she'd had to tear herself down a few hours later. Back when she was still under the illusion that death would be an escape.

No, instead, it was the very thing that brought her here: death, and its unwillingness to accept her. The Darksign, the cursed ring on the back of her hand that marked her like a slave, branded to be reborn with every death, until her mind shattered, and even long after.

Indeed, she already resembled a Hollow, skin ashen gray and dirt-streaked, taut over slowly-atrophying muscles. Sunken, dull eyes, clothed in little more than filthy rags. Her hair was a thick, matted mess that she'd long since given up on keeping up with, its natural raven black hidden behind a thick layer of mud, muck, and other things she’d rather not think about for long. And she could only imagine what she smelled like.  Physically, she was a lost cause. So, she continued to go through the motions of humanity, if only to hold onto some small part of what she'd once had. To try and hold back the fate inevitably marching towards her, for as long as she could.

It was a losing battle, but it wasn’t the first Joan had fought.

Nor, by fate or fortune, would it be the last. Though, until the end of her days, she would debate whether or not she would have been better off going insane in that cold, lonely, forgotten cell. Whether it was salvation or damnation, it came through a hole in the ceiling, in the form of the sounds of battle. Not a fight, from two Hollows tearing at each other in a frenzy, nor some poor soul kicking and screaming as he was being dragged into the Asylum. True, steel-on-steel battle like Joan had experienced on the fields of war so many times in the past.

Much to her shame on reflection, when a body came tumbling down that hole, armor clattering and clanking and making a terrible noise, Joan was on the far side of her cell before it hit the ground, and it took her a few moments longer to venture close to where the body fell, and take a look above. She was met by a silent, emotionless stare from a visored knight’s helm. Its owner regarded her for a moment, tossed something else down with it, and left her sight, though she would hear footsteps and fighting for a good time after.

After waiting a moment longer to be sure she wouldn’t be getting any more surprises, Joan examined the body, starting with its right hand. It bore the same mark that she did, and she said some very improper things under her breath. Whoever it was that was up there, they’d just dumped her with a Hollow, who would quite soon be pulling itself back together, and turning its attention on her. And what was she to do then, shiver to death?

She discovered the answer quicker than she’d have expected; the Hollow began to stir, Joan’s lost warrior’s spirit found itself again, and she brought her heel down on its head and neck until she heard a snap. Then another. And a few more after that, until she was quite certain that she’d be safe for some time, and that at least one of the snaps had come from her. The limp as she parted the Hollow and its equipment confirmed that.

Luck was with her, at least partially. The armor, though dented, was mostly intact, and in fairly good condition. And, what was more, it looked like it would fit her, with some adjusting and a bit of discomfort. She already felt a bit safer, and a bit more like herself. Less fortunately, the accompanying shield and sword were in significantly worse condition- the former had taken the brunt of the weight as the corpse fell, and the blade of the latter had snapped in half beneath it.

Joan stood there for a while, holding some piecemeal armor and half a sword, and looking like quite a farce, until she remembered that the knight had thrown something else down the hole as well. It took a bit of digging through mud, puddles and refuse, but she found it, and could hardly believe her eyes.

A key.

A few minutes later, the once-knight Joan of Astora pushed open the door to her cell, leaving the key in the hole. The armor shifted and clanked as it settled on her malnourished frame, and she gripped the broken sword in both fists. She didn’t know where she was going, but it wasn’t a cold, leaky cell, and that was good enough for her. Anything was better than going Hollow.

_Anything._

**Author's Note:**

> No idea when or if I'll update this next. When inspiration strikes, I suppose.


End file.
